


the ghost in the shell

by scarletbluebird



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, M/M, Shrunkyclunks, Steve Rogers is still Captain America, Time Travel, and, it's time travel guys just trust me, modern!Bucky, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7984426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletbluebird/pseuds/scarletbluebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers the day he told her about Bucky, his best friend: a man who was taller than the tree outside their tenement, who wore weird clothes, had pirate hair and a robot arm besides.</p><p>“Robot arm?” Sarah had raised her eyebrows, “Have you been sneaking Argosy magazines again young man?”</p><p>“No-oo,” Steve, who had been sneak reading Argosy magazines, shifted from foot to foot at the kitchen table. “He did have a robot arm though ma, you should have seen it.”</p><p>“Hmmmm,” Sarah turned her attention back towards the broth she was stirring on the stovetop. “When is he coming to visit next? I’ll say hello.”</p><p>“He doesn’t know ma,” Steve raised his hands in consternation. “He’s a time traveller!”</p><p>Sarah laughed, "Of course he is."</p><p> </p><p>Or:</p><p>"I go back to the same places again and again," Bucky breathes deep, cold air biting into his lungs. "I get pulled in, like gravity and  I...I think the universe knew you were it for me Steve. Before we knew it ourselves."</p><p> </p><p>Bucky suffers from a rare disease known as chronoimpairment. He and Steve have something in common; they're both men out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_had we but world enough, and time,_

 

*

 

 

the ghost in the shell

 

 

 

_September 2014,_

_Bucky is 27, Steve is 29_

 

Sam says, cheer evident even through the phone. “Hey man, I really appreciate this.”

 

Bucky leans back on the bench watching a pigeon try to sneak a fry from a lady across the bike path. The woman swats at it with her magazine but it keeps coming back every time she looks away. “No problem Sam. I mean I’d have to be a real asshole to say no to Captain America.”

 

“And now you went and ruined it,” Sam laughs. “Good Samaritan my ass.”

 

“You love that ass,” Bucky shoots back.

 

“Not after you eat Mexican I don’t,”

 

“Ugh I hate you,” Bucky starts to meander his way back towards the Starbucks. He could use an Americano right about now. “I’ll see you two at three tomorrow?”

 

“Yea, we’ll be there.”

 

Bucky hangs up and stops at the corner, waiting for the light to change. He closes his eyes and lets the late afternoon sun soak into his skin. It’s September in New York and the humidity has finally broken. He feels like he can breathe again.

 

*

 

Bucky doesn’t remember his first jump but he’s 5 when it happens. His ma used to tell him he nearly scared the life out of her when he came back.

 

“You were gone,” she liked to say, with that twinkle of mischief in her eye. “And then you were suddenly there again, laughing. You nearly scared the life out of me! I dropped the laundry basket I was carrying. Had to rewash everything."

 

“I was laughing?” Bucky had asked every time, although he knew the story well.

 

“Laughing,” His ma had always laughed too, like she couldn’t help but be fond of the memory despite the ruined wash. “You were so happy. Kept saying you’d met your best friend.”

 

*

 

Captain America is not what Bucky is expecting. Like every American school child since 1945, Bucky has learned about Steven Grant Rogers since elementary school. Almost every history class had a section on Captain America and nearly every English class. The preferred reading of his college professors had been the revolutionary novel Howling Woods that focused on Rogers relationship with his men and in particular his best friend. If Bucky ever has to read that boring tome again it would be too soon. Just thinking about it makes him roll his eyes.

 

Bucky has been expecting the person he’d seen on the black and white reels in his historic pres class in undergrad; someone tall, someone commanding, noble, serious. This Rogers is definitely serious but he’s also…strange.

 

“What year were you born?” Rogers asks almost as soon as they settle in the car. He’s been focused on Bucky since shaking his hand outside Bucky’s beat up old Rabbit while Sam stuffed their bags in the hatch.

 

“Uh 1987,” Bucky says, glancing at Sam in his rear view mirror. Sam gives him a wide-eyed shrug. Mouths, _I don’t know_ like he’s noticed Steve’s focus and it’s thrown him for a loop. Great. Bucky seems to bring out the weird in everyone; it’s one of his many gifts.

 

“So you’re…” Rogers trails off. When Bucky glances over at him he’s staring out the windshield with a frown.

 

“27?” Bucky offers. “I guess we all must seem a little young to you though, huh.” He cringes feeling like a jackass. Like Rogers really needs reminding that all his friends are dead. Jesus, Sam had told him the guys practically been living like a hermit since getting defrosted. He keeps his eyes focused on the road as they hit 95 South but he can feel Rogers’ gaze burning into the side of his face. Whoops.

 

A prickling suspicion hits him like a bolt from the blue. Could he possibly have…? No. He shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder to his blind spot as he changes lanes. He refuses to let his eyes drift towards the passenger seat and the silence in the car is somehow deafening. No, it’s so ludicrous he nearly laughs out loud at the idea. He’s never gone that far, never jumped back beyond his own life span.

 

He gives in and glances over. Rogers is still watching him with that strange look on his face. Soft eyes like maybe…Bucky looks away, cheeks unaccountably hot.

 

“So you got any good music or we just gonna sit here thinking deep thoughts,” Sam’s voice cuts through the silence and Bucky can almost cry with relief.

 

In a way though he can relate to Rogers; they’re both men out of time.

 

*

 

They stop at the Chesapeake House for something to eat and to refill the tank. Bucky splurges and waits in the hellacious Auntie Annie’s line for a hot cinnamon covered pretzel because he thinks he deserves a reward for not murdering anyone on the Turnpike.

 

He spots Sam and Rogers tucked away on a corner table, talking over hotdogs. Rogers is laughing about something and Bucky takes a moment to watch, surprised at how the action transforms the man’s face into something warm and approachable. He shakes his head and weaves his way through the Sunday travelers crowd.

 

“Hey guys,” He takes a seat next to Sam and reaches out to snatch a fry.

 

“That’ll be 50 cents,” Sam says dryly, wiping his mustardy hands on a napkin.

 

“Put it on my tab,” Bucky retorts with his mouth full of greasy delicious potato. He nods towards Rogers who has fallen silent and is staring down at his half eaten hotdog like it was once his real dog and someone has taken it, cooked it and is now force-feeding it to him. “No good?” He quips wondering what the hell he did wrong. Was the comment in the car really that much of a faux pas?

 

“Uh,” Rogers glances up, frowning like Bucky’s asked a serious question. “No. I mean, it’s okay.” He picks up the hot dog and takes a bite, looks away, clearly done with the conversation.

 

“Uh huh.” Bucky raises his eyebrows. He waits for a moment but Rogers doesn’t seem interested in acknowledging him so he turns his attention towards his pretzel after giving Sam the hairy eyeball. Sam’s too busy making love to his French fries to notice.

 

*

Sam and Bucky lease a little house in Del Ray a couple of blocks from Mt. Vernon Avenue. It’s kind of a shithole to be honest, and sometimes smells like cigarette smoke from the neighbors next door, but it has a back yard with a big tree that gives shade to the patio and Bucky’s even hung a hammock under it that he likes to doze in when the mosquitos and humidity aren’t too unbearable.

 

Sam works at the big SHIELD complex off the Potomac, and Rogers is headlining some new program over there after a few years in New York and the “incident” where the sky ripped open. Bucky doesn’t deal with that shit anymore so he doesn’t really want to know.

 

“Here’s the guest bedroom,” Bucky opens the little used door and motions inside at the piles of boxes he’d quickly tried to semi organize in the corner while Sam and Rogers were unpacking the car. Rogers hovers a few feet from his shoulder. “Sorry it’s kind of dusty.”

 

“It’s okay,” Rogers assures, moving into the room. Bucky can’t help but notice how his shoulders are hunched inwards, like he’s trying to make himself small. Abruptly it’s more than he can take this, whatever it is. Bucky doesn’t have to be everybody’s best friend, but he’s not used to being tiptoed around like he’s some sort of asshole.

 

“Hey man,” He scuffs the back of his head. Rogers turns to look at him. “I just wanted to say sorry.”

 

“What for?” Rogers says after a moment, brow pinched in that perpetual frown.

 

Bucky heaves a sigh. “I dunno…I just, feel like we got off on the wrong foot?” Worst semi-apology ever for being himself, “Like maybe I came off as an ass or something? I mean I am kind of an ass, but like…not an asshole? I mean…I’m sorry if I rubbed you the wrong way. Or, whatever.” He gives up, trailing off with an awkward half shrug.

Rogers has his head tilted at him, considering. “You’re fine,” He says slowly, shaking his head. He’s got his hands shoved deep into his pockets, basically a big neon sign for unapproachable. Bucky waits a moment but he doesn’t say anything else. Okay then.

 

“Well,” Bucky says eventually, feeling awkward as hell but not knowing what to do about it. “That’s good to know I guess? Anyway, I’ll leave you to…unpack.” Rogers has exactly one duffle bag he’s got slung over his shoulder but Bucky’s not keen on sticking around for any longer than he has to. He backs out of the room, and nods at Rogers who is still watching him.

 

He closes the door and heaves a sigh to release his tension, shaking his shoulders out. “Strange.” He mumbles, walking towards the kitchen, disheartened.

 

Sam’s in there making coffee in their old percolator and he hip checks him aside to get access to the cabinets. Their kitchen is puny like the rest of the house, little more than a modified hallway. Someday Bucky will have a huge kitchen with actual counter space and an actual island. He won’t have to stack pots on top of the refrigerator or keep his microwave in the closet to pull out when he needs it. Someday.

 

“Excuse you,” Sam says, not bothering to look away from the coffee bubbling up into the glass lid.

 

“No excuse for me,” Bucky says, rooting through the cabinets. “Hey I thought we had some biscotti left.”

 

“Nah man, I ate that like a solid week ago.”

 

“Dammit Sam, I wanted those,” Bucky whines, slouching over to one of the high stools. It’s a biscotti sort of evening.

“Sorry,” Sam pulls the canister off the stove eye and reaches for his favorite mug denoting correct grammar usage with explicative language. “I’ll buy you some more tomorrow. You show Steve to his room?”

 

“Ya,” Bucky leans his elbows on the counter top and scrubs at his eyes, exhausted from the drive and his shitty attempt at making friends. “Quiet that guy.”

 

“Mmmhmm,” Sam says in that tone that says he’s not agreeing so much as buying time to think. He takes a deep gulp of coffee and makes a face. “He is actin’ kind of off, I’ll give you that much but.” He shrugs. “I think this will be good for him. He hasn’t really gone out much to meet people since...”

 

Bucky feels that uncomfortable curdling in his stomach. “Yea,” He sighs. “I guess not huh?”

“And man,” Sam rubs the back of his neck. “I know that things are weird…you want me to talk to him?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah don’t worry about it, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Think we’re all just tired. I’m gonna hit the shower and then pass out.”

 

Sam gives him a knowing look. “Ok that sounds good. Want me to text you when dinner’s ready?”

 

“Nah I’m good,” Bucky’s already moving back down the hallway, “Thanks though.”

 

 

*

 

The first time Bucky remembers jumping, he’s seven and scared, hiding in the closet listening to his mom and dad having a screaming match in the kitchen. He’s got his hands over his ears, eyes pinched shut. He’s wishing he could be anywhere but here, his heartbeat stuttering in his ears, he remembers thinking _please please please_ as something heavy gets thrown across the kitchen. Then it all gets bright like someone’s turned the light on and when he opens his eyes he’s in a field. There’s tall golden grass brushing against his legs.

 

He gasps frightened, raising his hand to shade his eyes. “Where am I?” He walks forward through the meadow as the world comes into focus.

 

The sun is very high in the sky and it’s so hot he swipes his hair off his forehead where it’s gone sticky. He’s trying to be brave, sniffing and wiping his nose. “Hello?” He calls out, voice wobbly. “Hellohhh?”

 

“Bucky?” He whirls around. There’s a tall man standing in the shadows of the tree line. Bucky can’t see his face.

 

“Who are you?” Bucky cries, scared. He wants to go home, he wants to- “How did you know my name?”

 

He backs away as the man starts to move forward. He’s big, bigger than Bucky had first thought, and wearing some kind of strange outfit with a weird helmet. “Bucky,” he’s saying in the soft tone his ma uses sometimes when Bucky falls down and hurts himself. “It’s okay honey, it’s okay.”

 

“I-“ Bucky’s crying hard now, stumbling backwards. He falls hard on his bottom. His heart is beating real fast. “I want-“

 

He’s sitting in the closet, blinking wet eyes. For a second he lets himself cry, big sobs ripping out of him and then he scrubs at his eyes and pushes the door open. The yelling in the kitchen is softer now, the room darker like it’s near dinner time. He crosses his legs pretzel style and takes the deep breaths his mom taught him. In and out, in and out, in and out until his tummy starts to feel better.

 

“Bad dream,” He mumbles to himself. It isn’t until he’s older that he realizes he’d been traveling.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night, starved and with a metallic taste sharp in the back of his throat. He shakes off the shadows of his dreams and shuffles out of the bedroom and down the creaky narrow steps to the kitchen. Yawning, he pulls out a box of pasta and sets a pot of water to boil and then spends some long minutes dozing at the countertop until the water threatens to bubble over.

 

He’s in the middle of slurping up noodles with cold pasta sauce when Rogers steps into the kitchen and looks at him with surprise. They stare at each other for a moment; Bucky suddenly sharply aware he’s dressed only in his boxer briefs. His chest and legs feel stupidly exposed in the air conditioning. He can only imagine what his bed head looks like.

 

“S-sorry,” Rogers stutters and about faces. Poor guy’s probably traumatized.

 

“Oh hey,” Bucky calls after him and the man freezes. “You don’t gotta go. I uh, there’s plenty of pasta left in the strainer if you want some. Sorry I forgot to turn on the light, I uh, do that sometimes.” He looks down and swirls the spaghetti, listening to the sound of Rogers’ footsteps come into the kitchen. Something inside him is holding its breath.

 

“Uh it's okay..and thanks,” Rogers’ shoulders are stiff as he stands at the sink. He moves like an automaton; well practiced, opening the cabinet to get a bowl, scooping pasta, picking up the pan, pouring sauce. He turns and gives Bucky a lightning fast once over before his eyes focus on his food and he moves to the counter, socks shuffling shuuushhh shuuushh shuuushhh across the floor as he goes.

 

Bucky side eyes him, watching him shovel the food in his mouth. “Easy soldier,” He jokes around his own mouthful. “No one’s gonna take it away from ya.”

 

Rogers chewing slows. He swallows. “S’good,’ He says softly still looking down. Damn, boy's got some eyelashes on him. Bucky shakes his head at his own thoughts.

 

“Thanks.” Bucky says, stupidly charmed despite it all. He swirls some spaghetti desperately trying to think of something else to say. Usually he’s pretty good at breaking the ice but Rogers is proving to be a tough nut to crack. The guy just doesn’t seem to be warming up to him.

 

Bucky’s moving to rinse his empty bowl out in the sink when he catches Rogers looking at his arm.

 

  
“Oh yea, I have a weird thing about dates,” He says, running his hand over the roman numerals on his half sleeve.

 

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Rogers does a weird stuttering motion with his hand kind of like-

 

“Uh yup,” Bucky’s heart stutters in his throat loudly; he’s praying Rogers can’t hear it. Like, just how good is super hearing anyway? It’s sounding like damn thunder in his own ears. Fuck. Rogers does the hand flutter thing again. “Uh, you can touch it if you want? I mean…” He trails off as Rogers puts a finger light light against the skin of his left arm and runs it along the curve of his bicep. It feels like a spark of electricity is shooting down his spine and Bucky shivers, everything tightening up inside of him. He’s praying Rogers doesn’t notice how hard his nipples just got. He’s praying his dick doesn’t move- Rogers meets his eyes, god they’re blue, and pulls his hand away.

 

Oh fuck, Bucky thinks wildly. I’m a fucking idiot.

 

“Omnes vulnerant, ultima necat?” Rogers recites in a soft questioning tone.

 

Bucky has to clear his throat twice before answering and even then his voice sounds like a frog, “All hours wound, the last kills. Got that in my early twenties,” He shrugs because it was kind of true. “I was going through an existential crisis.”

 

Maybe now we can be friends? That little voice inside Bucky questions timidly. He rubs his right hand over the curve of his shoulder and the sundial’s star that’s inked there in red. Rogers turns his attention back to his bowl of spaghetti. The guy’s face has gone all pinched again and Bucky’s surprised by the wave of disappointment that sweeps through him at the rejection. He decides to call it a night and retreat back to the safety of his room before he says something he’ll regret in the light of day. Something stupid like, why don’t you like me? Or, what did I do wrong? Or, I think you’re really cute even though you’re hurting my feelings. Or, I want to know you, can't we be friends?

 

He wavers at the door, “Just leave the pot in the sink and I’ll get it tomorrow,” And doesn’t wait for Rogers to answer him before heading down the dark hallway to his mussed bed. When he passes Rogers’ open door he glances inside; the bed is still made.

 

*

 

The next day dawns as an unforgiving Monday and Bucky groans into his pillow as his alarm goes off at 6:15. He spends a few minutes angsting to himself about the unfairness of the universe before rolling out of bed and cracking his back. He stumbles his way down the hall to the bathroom and flips on the shower, sighing under the heat of the spray. He suds up, already thinking about the mountain of work he has to look forward to.

 

Bucky’s got a shitty admin job at Georgetown Hospital. When he was a real young kid he had had big aspirations of being a doctor but the jumping killed that dream. He’s content mostly; likes talking to patients when he can, likes the people he works with, but when he takes the time to stop and think about it he wishes there was something more he could do for the world in general. In his darker moments he thinks he’s good at killing things and not much else. But Sam’s gotten him into working at the VA as a volunteer group counselor every other weekend so he doesn’t feel like a completely useless human being and Nat drags him out on adventures – which he suspects are actually recon missions. Nat also works for Shady SHIELD (as Bucky likes to call it).

 

“You could always come back into the business Yasha,” She reminds him over coffee later on in the week. He’s fucking exhausted from work and dealing with the blue line. DC metro; the land of perpetual construction. His tie hangs like a yoke around his neck and he pulls it loose with a huff of frustration and sudden claustrophobia.

 

“Don’t call me that,” He says taking a slurp of his Americano, “And no. Not interested.”

 

“Hmmm so you say,” Nat hums in that annoyingly knowing way she has about her, like she knows better than him – and honestly she probably does. Natasha’s one of the few after all, who met Bucky before he met her.

 

“You and Clint still down to spar on Saturday?” He asks, changing the subject.

 

Natasha raises her eyebrow, “Still available to kick your asses,” She agrees. “Barton’s been slacking lately so it should be particularly easy.”

 

Bucky snorts, “We’ll see.”

 

“So I hear you have a new addition to your household,” She leans back in her seat, smirking as Bucky groans.

 

“Who told you? Sam? He told me he was gonna keep it out of the gossip mill,” Bucky complains, frustrated.

 

“Cool your jets James, it was Steve who told me,” Natasha takes a dainty sip out of her cup. “though how you thought this could be kept quiet in our group of friends is beyond me.”

 

“Rogers? Why would he bring me up?” Bucky tries not to squirm under her clear green gaze; it’s pointless really, Nat can always see right through his bullshit. Not for the first time he wonders under what circumstances they met. For him it was four years ago on the red line, pressed together during the commuter rush, trying to remain calm until the train hit the Metro Center stop. He’d glanced over as the train jostled around a bend, brakes screaming, and there she was staring at him with wide eyes and a white face. For her well, who knew; she always refused to tell him when he asked.

 

He’s brought back to the present when Nat shrugs, smirking in that way that spells trouble. “I think you've made quite an impression on him, walking around in your underwear in the middle of the night,” She says, drolly.

 

“Mother fuck-“ Bucky wants to sink through the floor. He puts his face in his hands. “I can’t believe, can’t a man walk around his own house without having to worry about being judged,” He complains to his palms.

 

“Nope,” There’s laughter in Nat’s voice. “And why are you embarrassed? You’re hot James, you should be proud.”

 

“Kill me,” He glares at her as she laughs. “Seriously what did he say about me?”

 

“Seriously,” Nat takes a second to calm down, pats a finger under her eye as if her perfect makeup would dare smudge. “He didn’t say anything. Just that he’s living with you and Sam.”

 

Bucky waits a minute. “But?” He adds. It wasn’t what Nat said, but the way she said it.

 

“But…” Natasha speaks slowly and now she’s frowning and giving Bucky a look he can’t read. Concerned maybe? Puzzled?

 

“Nat what is it?” He asks, heart jumping in his throat. He feels anticipatory, nauseated like the seconds before a fall.

 

“I think he might be like me,” She says finally, looking away like she’s somehow betrayed Rogers’ confidence in admitting this. “I think he might know you.” Future you, she doesn't have to say.

 

“But see that’s not possible,” And now that she’s said it, Bucky realizes he has been expecting this. “I’ve already thought of that Nat, I-“ He leans forward, rests his elbows on the table, wraps his hands around his hot drink and relishes the burn on his palms, uses it to center himself, to gather his jumpy thoughts that are sizzling through his brain like a thousand bees. “It would have been all the way back in the 1930s for God’s sake. Before I was even born. I can’t…there’s no way I can jump that far back.” His voice wavers at the end as self-doubt creeps up his spine like a spider.

 

“You can’t?” Nat’s gazing out the window now. She’s so still she could almost not be there at all. “Or maybe you just haven’t had a reason to yet?”

 

Bucky shakes his head. “Even _if_ that sort of jump were possible…which it isn’t…He would have said something if we’d met before,” Bucky’s sure. He’s pretty sure. Why the hell wouldn’t Rogers say they met? He shakes his head again and chokes out a laugh.

 

“James,” Natasha puts a cool hand on top of his own, soothing him.  “I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t even know for sure if I’m right, it was just a feeling I got when he said your name.”

 

“My name?” Bucky shrugs. “So what?”

 

“James,” Natasha says quietly. “He called you Bucky.”

 

 

*

 

The thing about Bucky’s nickname is he doesn’t know how he got it. It’s just something he remembers his ma calling him growing up, what he likes to call himself, what he thinks of as _himself_. He doesn’t tell many people it and not many people call him Bucky. Sam doesn’t, Nat doesn’t, Clint doesn’t. Becks does, his ma did and that was basically it. Where the fuck did Rogers even _hear_ it?

 

There’s a reasonable explanation, Bucky thinks as he walks down the street towards his house. Of course there is, it’s just not one he wants to consider. He goes around the back of the house and lays in the hammock, bracing a foot against the ground to rock himself. He closes his eyes and lets the autumn air drift across his body as he considers.

 

Bucky has been giving Rogers a wide birth since their midnight spaghetti special scene. He’s nodded hello if the both of them are in the kitchen at the same time, he’s brewed enough coffee for everyone in the apartment, he’s made enough dinner. When they all sit in the living room to watch TV, he’s offered Rogers the remote expecting to be waved off and relishing when he’s vindicated. Fine, he’s thought to himself, it’s fine. They are civil strangers; it’s not like all roommates are friends.

 

Of course Rogers has done shit that fucks with his head, like asking him how his day is in a soft voice that Bucky never hears him use on Sam. Or offering to pick him up on his bike after his shift if Sam has to take the car somewhere, all earnest blue eyes and furrowed brows.

 

Bucky always grits teeth and says ‘no thanks’; he doesn’t need any pity favors. He says his day is fine and even asks Rogers how his work is going.

 

“It’s alright,” Rogers says every time. They’re situation is fucking wonderful, really. 

 

Is it possible, Bucky thinks to himself drowsily, barely daring to consider the thought, that all this is some sort of fucked up front? But Rogers has never indicated he even knows about the time traveling. Granted that’s not something easily brought up but still.

 

After some long minutes of the same sort of useless circular thinking, Bucky gives up. He’s pretty sure that Natasha has a screw loose somewhere, but even if she is right there’s nothing much he can do about it. The risk of being wrong is too great. Say he does confront Rogers and the guy has no idea what he’s talking about; why should he expose himself to an almost complete stranger who seems to think he’s not worth the time of day? He shouldn’t that’s what.

 

“Fuck it.” He sighs to the darkening sky and heaves himself up to go inside and start on dinner.

 

*

 

That night he wakes in a park, almost completely covered in snow.

 

“Jesus Christ,” He yelps scrambling up. He’s barefooted and his feet feel like blocks of ice. He puts his hands under his pits and hops on one foot and then the other across the park looking for a spot devoid of snow drifts. In desperation he takes off his thermal nightshirt and wraps it around one foot to use as a makeshift shoe. Of course then his nipples feel like they’re about to fall off but it seems the lesser of two evils.

 

He looks around but the park is deserted and for some reason there aren’t any streetlights that he can see.

 

“Where the fuck am I?” He wonders aloud, hopping like an imbecile towards the street. Maybe he’ll get lucky and slip on a patch of ice and break his neck and then all his problems will be over. The trees eventually part and his chest loosens as he catches sight of the tall buildings. New York. Home sweet home.

 

He’s hobbling across the street – and why they’re paving in the middle of winter he has no idea – when the telltale tingly feeling comes over him; that strange pins and needles disassociation starting in his fingertips and the tip of his nose. He stops on the curb and breathes through his mouth, deep, deep, closes his eyes-

 

He’s back in his bedroom. He kicks off the soggy shirt and all but leaps into bed. In a few minutes he’ll drag his ass up and crank up the thermostat but for now he can't summon up the energy to move.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looks to the right, looks to the left....sooooo who here can tell I'm a DC native \o/


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Damn Barnes, rough night?” Bucky doesn’t look up from his slouch on the couch. He’s got the covers pulled up just right, up over his mouth and nose, just his eyes squinting out at the cruel cruel world. He’s watching season four of Gilmore Girls on low volume with the subtitles running. “Mmmmf,” He says through the fabric.

 

“You comin’ down with something?” Sam plops down on the other side of the couch, jostling Bucky, making him cast over a half-hearted glare. “You seemed fine last night.”

 

Bucky pulls down the blanket enough to say, “Bad jump,” Through a scratchy throat.

 

“Ah well-“ Sam’s voice wobbles and Bucky turns to follow his gaze, heart jittering when he sees Rogers loitering in the doorway between the living room and their puny kitchen.

 

“Jump,” Rogers has his coffee cup in front of his mouth, his voice is muffled. Bucky can’t read the look in his eyes. His mind is a going haywire over possibilities.

 

Bucky’s holding his breath but Rogers doesn’t say anything else. Why doesn’t he say anything else? Does he know? He tries to gauge what to say by the curve of Rogers’ shoulders (as formidable as ever), the curl of his hands around the mug (relaxed), the state of his brow (furrowed; shocker.) Rogers is as undecipherable as Bucky's computer manual; that is to say, completely.

 

“Ehm erm,” Sam stutters atypically unsure. Bucky would be amused except he’s about to piss himself with nerves. “Jump yea, that’s like slang for like a bad time of it, a rough night, you know man – like that.” Sam waves his hand; Bucky wants to sink into the sofa cushions because there's no way Rogers is buying the bullshit Sam is selling. He squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch Rogers’ face any more.

 

“Slang?” Rogers asks after a while. Bucky pulls the comforter over his head, cocooning himself. He’s having no part of this.

 

“Steve,” Sam seems to have recovered because now it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “I know you know what slang is; they definitely had that in the forties.”

 

Rogers huffs, “I know what slang is. Jump doesn’t sound like slang.” His voice is doubtful. “And why is Bucky hiding under the covers?”

 

Bucky pulls the blanket off his head, unfocused anger flooding through him. His hair plumps up in a static electricity cloud around his face and he pushes it back with an annoyed hand. “My name is James,” He intones through a stuffed nose. He’s trying to sound snotty but well, he actually _sounds_ like there’s snot in danger of dripping out his nostrils. Attractive he’s sure. He glares at Rogers when his frown deepens. “Also Sam is lying. Jump is not slang-“

 

“Not yet,” Sam cuts in, elbowing Bucky in the side so hard he nearly looses his balance. “But it’s gonna catch on.”

 

“Fuck it,” Bucky pulls the blankets over his head again and tunes out the rest of their conversation. He wakes up with the sun shining on his face and realizes he must have fallen asleep. It feels like mid afternoon and the apartment is quiet, full of the lazy afternoon light that feels like home. He lets himself lay still and breathe the warmth into his bones, lets his mind relax.

It’s alright, he thinks to himself quietly, it’ll be alright. Maybe Rogers knows, probably he doesn't. Bucky's mind is heavy with exhaustion, his thoughts a slow liquid trickle, drifting like dust through shafts of light. 

 

 

*

 

Bucky runs into Rogers in the gym in Stark Tower. It’s just about the last place he’s expecting to see the guy, but there he is, pounding away at a punching bag when Bucky turns the corner after his sparring session. Bucky stands for a moment in the doorway, drenched in sweat, and watches at Rogers lashes out in almost desperate movements.

 

What is he fighting against, Bucky can’t help but wonder as he stares at the frenetic movements of Rogers’ shoulders, the tight shifting of his arms. The man's face looks like a stone wall. He’s jarred out of his musing when the straps holding the sand bag snap, and the bag goes flying across the room. Abruptly he’s flooded with embarrassment, somehow keenly aware that he’s intruding upon a private moment. Bucky backs out into the hallway and leans against the cool wall, panting shallowly for no reason he can discern. After a moment the sounds of a fist hitting leather start again. 

 

*

“Barnes you got that file I was looking for on Mancetti?” Willis sticks his head into Bucky’s office. “Dr. Grey's been riding my ass about it all day. Man what a bitch.”

 

“It’s here,” Bucky waves his had towards said file, eyes focused on his computer monitor. “Insurance auths on that one took a while.”

 

“Don’t they always,” Willis quips, stepping forward to pluck up the folder from the desk. Bucky continues to type _watermelon watermelon watermelon_ into an email to Nat. It isn’t that he doesn’t like Willis, it’s just that he doesn’t like talking to the guy. He exudes pretentiousness and talks shit about everyone, particularly the women in the hospital. Okay, so he hates Willis. When the guy continues to loiter in front of his desk he sighs and glances up, “Anything else?” He asks wryly.

 

“Couple of guys are going out after work tonight, was wondering if you wanted to come with,” the guy's smirking like he invented the idea of happy hour.

 

“Ah,” Bucky says, as apologetically as he can pretend to be, “No can do I’m afraid, got other plans. Roomie." He shrugs like he's saying  _what can you do?_ when really he's saying  _I fucking can't stand you, get out of my office you sexist asshole_. Willis thankfully can't tell the difference and laughs. 

 

"Next time I won't take no for an answer," He raps his knuckles on the doorframe before heading out into the hall. 

 

"Wonderful," Bucky rolls his eyes. "can't wait." He jumps when his computer pings and looks down at the new email from Nat. 

 

 _Why the fuck did you send me a page of you typing the word watermelon? Do I need to come over there and break some eggs?_ Is all it says. 

 

"Whoopsies," Bucky sighs. It is shaping up to be one of those days.

 

*

 

“Wanna come with?” Sam asks.

 

“Ha ha,” Bucky says, not bothering to look up from his book, that night. It was by a sweet twist of fate that his roommate was in fact trying to drag him out of the house.  “Don’t think your boy likes me very much.” There was no way he was getting out of his pajamas.

 

“Oh come on that’s not true,” Sam huffs but the guilty look on his face says otherwise.

 

“Sam,” This time Bucky does glance up, unable to believe they have to have this argument. “Whenever I walk into a room, the guy walks out.”

 

Sam purses his lips. “Could be a coincidence,” His voice goes high at the lie.

 

“He says _maybe_ two words to me in one day. Maybe.”

 

“He’s kinda shy!” Bucky gives him a flat look and Sam throws his arms up, “Okay yea you’re right that is weird cause he's a little shit believe me. I don’t –“ Sam heaves a sigh coming around the side of the couch to plop down on top of Bucky’s feet. Bucky gives him the stink eye and tugs them out from under his butt. “The truth is I don’t know what the hell is his problem when it comes to you. I've been trying to work it out since he got here.” Sam’s got his deep frowny face on.

 

“Pretty sure that ship has sailed.” Bucky shifts at the knot of unhappiness curdling in his belly. He's had time to think now, about what Nat said. It's been weeks. Weeks and Rogers and he have barely had enough words between them to count on two hands. He's convinced the name thing is a fluke. Rogers had to have heard it somewhere. He can't remember if his Skype conversations with Rivka ever got loud enough to creep into the living room; although with super hearing who knew.  

 

He tells himself he’s never idealized Captain America, not like Sam who had a poster of him taped up behind his dorm room door all throughout college (and Bucky suspects he’s still got it somewhere squirreled away), he tells himself he doesn't care. And he doesn't. It's just weird to live with someone who doesn't seem to like him.

 

“I don’t…” Sam shrugs. His eyes are soft and apologetic when he looks over. “I don’t know man. He doesn’t hate you obviously, but whenever I try to broach the topic he clams up like some weird patriotic sea shell.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky sighs, closing his book and dropping it on the coffee table. “I don’t care.”

 

 

*

 

It’s a few weeks later and Bucky’s making his famous chili when Sam and Rogers come back from their run. It’s his personal recipe he’s pretty proud of: just the right combination of spices – paprika, cumin, mustard. He’s putting the potato gratin into the oven (not his own personal recipe) when the guys wander in from the front hall.

 

“This is why I keep you around,” Sam’s sniffing at the pot over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky rolls his eyes; Sam loves backseat cooking.

 

“I thought it was for my charming personality,” Bucky quips back, shouldering him out of the way. Rogers is hovering at the edge of the living room watching them. “Hey you can join us if you want,” He invites only somewhat sarcastically.

 

“Thanks,” Rogers is so quiet for such a big guy. He’s sweat clear through his white tank and Bucky tries and fails not to notice how good he looks with his damp hair and flushed skin; it’s annoying.

 

“Holy fuck that’s hot!”

 

“You ass,” Bucky yanks the spoon away from Sam who’s fanning his mouth frantically, “you know I hate when you do that.” He goes back to stirring the chili, giving Sam the stink eye.

 

“Control freak,” Sam says fondly, filling up a glass and gulping down water. He turns to Rogers.

 

“Ouuuuut,” Bucky motions violently with the spoon and Sam rolls his eyes.

 

“Alright, alright come on Steve we know when we’re not wanted,” He motions to Rogers who’s been watching them in silence. Shocker there, Bucky thinks to himself. Maybe he left his voice back in the 1940s. It’s an uncharitable thought but he can’t help it; this thing with Rogers grates on him. He watches them move into the living room, Rogers suddenly a chatterbox as they flip through the channel guide.

 

Whatever. Bucky's pretty much scrubbed Nat's hypothesis at this point. Rogers hasn't given any inclination of knowing about Bucky's jumping, or knowing Bucky. He doesn't even call Bucky Bucky anymore, just James on the rare occasion he's addressed him by name. But he still does that loitering thing and Bucky can’t help but think Rogers is silently judging him every time he catches the tail end of a stare. Is Bucky some strange phenomenon so different from the dudes in the 1940s? He doesn’t think so. He has a boring short haircut and a boring wardrobe for the most part. The only unique thing about him was his tattoo. 

 

He taps the spoon against his bottom lip, thinking about the furthest back he’s jumped. That he remembers. He's got logs and logs of dates in notebooks in his room, in neat chronological order.

 

Furthest back as far as he knows is visiting his childhood bedroom, seeing his little self sleeping under a glow star canopy, young so young; three, maybe four years old. He’d stood in the bedroom for a minute and then wandered down the hall and pushed open his parents’ room, stared at the face of his mother relaxed in sleep, so beautiful, so young. So alive. He remembers wanting to shake her awake, to warn her like always about-

 

He shakes his head, hard to end that thought. He’s digressing.

 

“Yo Barnes do I smell something burning?” Comes a shout from the living room.

 

“Oh shit!“ Bucky turns his attention back towards the chili where the rice had fused to the bottom of the pan.

 

* 

 

Bucky blinks awake in the dark and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. He turns towards the window and sucks in a surprised breath.

 

“How long have you been here?” He whispers at the still figure before yawning and kicking the sheets off his sweaty legs. “Hey, what’s up?” he asks, shuffling his way to the window. As the streetlight shines through a crack in the curtain onto his other self, he stutters to a halt, heart thumping like a drum against his sternum.

 

“Oh.” It’s him, the stranger with the dark eyes. He’s staring out at the city, long hair hanging around his face. It’s been a long time since Bucky’s tried to get his ghost to speak. His silence used to infuriate him; now it just makes him sad. He glances at the empty sleeve; no metal arm this time. Looks at the side of his face, wishes for eye contact. His ghost stands like a sentinel against the night.

 

Bucky moves to press close, trying to lend as much comfort as he can. He stands like that for a while with his ghost, who blinks slowly like Bucky does when he’s hungover and it hurts to be. Eventually it’s just him again, just _Bucky_ breathing alone in the dark.

 

“It’s closer now,” He tells himself, stricken. His shaky hands drift up to his hair. It’s the longest it’s been in years; he’s going to get it cut tomorrow. He makes his left hand into a fist then splays it, stretching the fingers wide. He stands there doing that for a long time, shaking.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not happy with this but wanted to put out something. hope it's enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Interlude I

_Steve is 15, Bucky is 30_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The thing with loving someone is that it isn’t always easy and god damn it, it isn’t always fair.

 

“You can’t tell me,” Bucky’s saying in that earnest way he has about him, all wide pleading eyes and soft mouth. Steve’s belly feels heavy with that all too familiar want. He turns away as Bucky pleads, “Come on Steve you gotta promise me.”

 

Steve crosses his arms, stalking towards the window. “I don’t see why,” He huffs to the dark sky. The moon is a thin sliver tonight, just visible behind the clouds. It’s an early winter ambience, casting over Brooklyn as an eerie pall. Even the clothes hanging from the lines between the buildings sway like uncertain ghosts.

 

“Stevie, “ He can hear Bucky’s socked feet padding across the creaky wooden floors. He squeezes his eyes shut as Bucky puts his arms around him, swallows down some thick emotion as Bucky whispers. “Come on honey, you know why you can't.”

 

Buck’s warm, always so warm, a solid presence at his back that smells and feels like home. God damn it, Steve thinks. This isn’t fair. Why does he always have to be the one who's left behind?

 

“And when do I meet you?” Steve asks hoarsely, swiping his hand to wipe at his drippy nose. “Is it soon?” His voice cracks as Bucky’s arms tighten. Not soon then, he sniffs, trying to be strong. His ma always told him he had a well of strength in his belly, but he doesn't think so, not really.

 

Somehow he finds the wherewithal to turn and bury his face in Bucky’s shoulder, clenching tight at the fabric of Bucky’s soft red shirt. Bucky cradles Steve’s head with his real hand and runs his metal one gently up and down Steve’s back. He’s humming something under his breath Steve realizes, suddenly desperate to hear the half formed words in, French maybe?

 

His tears stop eventually, as he’s driven to exhaustion. Bucky leads him over to the bed and only puts in half his usual effort of protestation when Steve tugs him down. Bucky comes, and wraps his arms around Steve. They lay cocooned like that, two half shells tucked together on a tiny bed. Steve wishes they could stay like that forever. Eventually, Bucky reaches down to pull up the patchwork quilt that Sarah had painstakingly made when she was a younger girl. As he tucks it up around them, Steve nuzzles back into the curve of Bucky’s body, sighing when Bucky heaves a sigh. Sighing out all the heaviness in his chest. 

 

“I won’t be here when you wake up Stevie,” Bucky’s voice comes softly like he’s calling from a dream; maybe from the world where Bucky is from. Maybe he is only a dream after all, Steve thinks. It's the little fearsome thought that threatens to swallow him after he’s gone weeks, months without seeing Bucky. After he's been alone.

 

“You promise you’ll come back?” Steve’s teetering on the edge of sleep’s warm embrace.

 

Bucky presses closer. “I’ll always come back,” He whispers into Steve’s good ear. “I promise.”

 

*

 

Most days Steve just lives with it, the quiet fear perched on his shoulder, the endless questions that he tries to swallow down because Bucky won’t, can’t answer them.

 

Like: “How old are you when we meet?” The one he's asked countless times. Once, when he was 11, once when he was 15, god knows how many times in between. He tries to catch Bucky unawares; tries to ask him right after he’s woken up, or when he’s on the fuzzy liminal line of almost sleep, body slack and relaxed, or when he’s feeling nostalgic and heavy with doubt. It’s cheating he knows but he can’t help it; he only gets the bits and pieces of Bucky, always has since he was a kid, and he wants more, he wants to know when he’ll meet Bucky and it’s for keeps.

 

“Old as dirt,” Bucky will answer sometimes or, “I think I was around 5 according to you,” Or, “Nice try you punk, but you’re not getting anything outta me this time.” It’s frustrating and Steve spends many long fruitless hours trying to whittle out the truth. Cracking Bucky is like trying to carve a rock with a soup spoon.

 

His life for the most part is mundane; he goes to school, he comes home, he draws, he does his homework. He sees his ma on the odd day when she’s off from working the TB wards but mostly he wakes up to the brush of her kiss across his brow. They spend every Friday night together and talk about their week.

 

He remembers the day he told her about Bucky, his best friend: a man who was taller than the tree outside their tenement, who wore weird clothes, had pirate hair and a robot arm besides.

 

“Robot arm?” Sarah had raised her eyebrows, “Have you been sneaking argosy magazines again young man?”

  
  
“No-oo,” Steve, who had been sneak reading argosy magazines, had shifted from foot to foot at the kitchen table. “He did have a robot left arm though ma, you should have seen it.”

 

“Hmmmm,” Sarah turned her attention back towards the broth she was stirring on the stovetop. “When is he coming to visit next? I’ll say hello.”

 

“He doesn’t know ma,” Steve raised his hands in consternation. “He’s a time traveller!”

 

Sarah laughed, “Of course he is.”

*

 

 

Steve is eight the first time he meets Bucky Barnes. Well, if he’s being honest he’s about two days from turning eight. But who’s counting?

 

“Stay down Stinky,” Tommy Murphy sneers, giving him a shove that has Steve landing hard on his bottom in a pile of refuse.

 

“Stinky Steve, Stinky Steve,” Patrick and Ricky join in Tommy’s taunting. Steve pushes himself up on dirty palms and is catching his balance when Tommy shoves him again. This time when he falls he hurts his knee and his eyes flood with tears.

 

“Aw, is little Stinky Steve gonna cry for his mama?” the boys laugh and Steve feels his face scrunch up.

 

“Hey, what’s going on here?” An adult voice cuts through the jeering and Steve glances through his tears as a grown up steps in between him and the boys. “You kids got a problem?” He says with a deep voice.

 

“No sir,” Kiss ass Tommy says, like butter wouldn’t dare melt in his mouth. He blinks his big eyes, “We were just playin with ol’ Steve here,”

 

“You weren’t just anything,” The guy cuts him off, “And you better scram right now or you’ll be sorry.” The kids don’t need to be told twice and Steve watches as they push each other out of the way in their haste to leave the alley. Then it’s just him and the stranger and Steve curls his toes in fear as the guy squats down next to him.

 

“Hey there,” his voice is much softer now and when Steve gathers the courage to look up at him he meets kind eyes, “you okay?”

 

“Ya,” he coughs a couple of times, “I had em.”

 

The man smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that Steve’s seen in the black and whites, bright and welcoming. It’s like the coming home smile his ma gives him, warm and soft and _ma_.

 

“I know you did pal,” The man says softly. “Can I give you a hand up?”

 

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Steve whispers, suddenly remembering himself.

 

“Oh,” The man looks surprised. He’s balanced on the toes of his feet like a funny bird. “Well that’s smart of you. My name's Bucky,” He holds his hand out.

 

Steve giggles, “That’s a funny name,” but he remembers his manners and moves to shake the man’s hand. “I’m Steve.”

 

“Very nice to meet you Steve,” Bucky says, smiling again. He’s got really blue eyes, Steve thinks, like the cornflowers his ma likes to put out in the summer time. Just like. “Now that we’re properly introduced, can I give you a hand up?”

  
Steve takes a moment to think before nodding. “Okay!” He lets Bucky pull him to his feet. “Wow, you’re tall!” He looks up and up; Bucky’s like a mountain or a tree. He’s dressed funny, in a bright colored shirt and weird pants. “Why are you dressed so funny? “ He blurts out before covering his mouth with a gasp. His ma would wash his mouth out with soap hearing him talk fresh like that. “Sorry sorry,” He mumbles from between his fingers.

 

Bucky gives a big laugh. “Aw that’s alright. I guess I am dressed weird, huh? Well, I’ll tell you a secret…” He cups his hand around his mouth. “I’m from the future.”

 

“No!” Steve gasps again, this time in delight. From the future? He looks Bucky up and down with new eyes, taking in the strange shoes, the long hair, the- “Is that a metal arm?” His mouth drops open in awe. It’s just like synthetic men from mars!

 

Bucky holds out his arm, palm up. The sun shines off of the silver. “Sure is.” He winks as Steve continues to gape. “It’s alright, you can touch it if you want.”

 

Steve reaches out, barely able to hold his hand still it’s so shaky with excitement. He runs his fingers along the strange grooves of Bucky’s arm, laughing as the plates shift. He touches every one of Bucky’s fingers. “Can you feel that?” He asks, each time. Each time Bucky says, “Yes.”

 

He makes Bucky laugh again when he asks him if he’s from Mars. He likes making Bucky laugh.

 

“Are you my friend?” He asks later, when Bucky has walked him back to the rear steps of the tenement. The fading light falls across Bucky’s face, making him squint.

 

“I’d like to be,” he says seriously.

 

“Alright,” Steve nearly squirms with happiness as he backs up the stairs. His first friend! He wants to see Bucky as long as possible. Finally he’s at the back door and he waves goodbye and Bucky laughs again and waves back.  


“See you soon Stevie,” He says as Steve pulls the door shut behind him.

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter but Steve pov?? Trade off?????? posted earlier in the week????????????


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

_Bucky is 27, Steve is 29_

 

 

Sometimes Bucky can tell when a jump is imminent. He’ll feel shitty for a few days, like he’s got a killer hangover he can’t shake; colors will be too bright, noises too loud, everything will feel too sharp. He’s an over exposed nerve waiting for the fall, the world rubbing raw against his skin. That’s the double-edged sword he lives with; the older he gets the more control he has, the more painful it becomes. Other times it hits him like a bolt from the blue; he’ll be walking, laughing, talking and suddenly bam – he’ll be somewhere else entirely.

 

 

Used to be, he’d jump erratically like he was just one step away from another world. He’d blink his eyes in the hallway of his home and turn around in a busy street. In his formative years he ran out of class so often his ma had to give in and home school him.

 

 

“You don’t do things by halves do you Bucky,” she used to say whenever he’d come back from traveling. Halves of what? Bucky would wonder, like maybe he was in danger of leaving some of himself behind.

 

 

Back then the jumps left him full of energy, wanting more, wanting to see across the field, chase the tall man through the smoke, climb up the rickety fire escapes on the old buildings. Now he jumps less but they’re rougher against his skin. When he comes back he’s clammy, shaky and unsure like he’s been swimming through dark water and he’s forgotten which way is up. He feels turned inside out; liminal, somehow in both pictures of a doubly exposed photograph and unsure of what picture he’s supposed to be looking at. It takes him a long time to feel right again, to feel warm.

 

 

Bucky’s not sure but he thinks he’ll die traveling, stuck on the bridge between the then and the now. His soul spread out across that incomprehensible fabric, anachronistic bits in both places at once. He’s seen his missing piece, met him in the dark, looked into those eyes and recognized nothing of himself. Somewhere in time, he meets his maker and it undoes him.

 

 

“Who are you?” He’d shouted the first time, wild eyed and crying because why _why_ wouldn’t he talk back? Every self he’d met before was so friendly, but not him, he just stood silently like some sort of ghoul. The first time Bucky had gone and hid in his bedroom closet and closed his eyes and tried to sing to himself until he’d calmed down. By the time he’d eased open the door, he’d been alone. The next time had been better – if that was possible – he hadn’t run at least. The time after that he’d asked the same question but calmly, to silence. Always silence.

 

 

Through the years he pieced it together as best he could; grasping at clues like cobwebs in the wind. He’d made his first notebook at ten; time lined it out by 14. Arm, no arm, Arm?

 

 

He has piles of notebooks on him, his ghost in the shell, the one armed man who shares his face. Now Bucky knows, it’s only a matter of time.

 

 

*

 

 

The next day he’s squinting as he threads a needle, scrub pants strewn out across his lap. He’s got a cup of coffee on the side table, a plate of biscotti that Sam had bought that morning at his elbow. He feels like shit from the encounter with Ghost the night before but what else can he do but trudge on. He can’t lay in bed forever.

 

 

Sam and Rogers had left at some godforsaken hour and weren’t expected back until lunch which meant he had a few hours to try and hem these damn pants that were trying to kill him every time he wore them on shift, and watch Gilmore Girls without Sam making fun of him.

 

 

“Sam loves this show he just won’t admit it,” Bucky grumps to the television because anyone who can identify Luke Danes from the back of his head on a paused screen is more than just a casual viewer no matter what Sam likes to deny. He sniffs and then freezes as a shiver cuts through him.

 

 

“Oh shi-“ he’s sitting on his ass in the middle of some muddied field. For a second he’s overwhelmed with frustration and tempted to lay back and shake his fist at the sky. Instead he stands up and makes a face at his muddied backside. “Typical,” He grouses to himself, trying to whack some of the mud off of his pants leg; he only succeeds in dirtying his hand. He heaves a sigh and gives up, trudging across the field towards a copse of trees. The universe couldn’t cut him a break after last night?

 

 

It’s hot as hell wherever he is and he collapses against the bark of a tree, closing his eyes as a heavy summer wind blows his hair against his face. He takes some long minutes to calm his choppy breathing, stares out through his lashes at the unfamiliar world. In the distance he can see the hazy blue outline of big mountains and the sun is glaring down at him from a cloudless sky. There’s the humming of insects in the air, heavy and rising. The field in front of him spreads out, golden in the sunlight, to the edge of a pine forest.

 

 

“Where the hell am I?” He wonders out loud. He’s never been to anywhere like this before and it’s rare for him to travel to an unfamiliar place. When it’s clear he’s not jumping any time soon he heaves another sigh and stands, swiping his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He’s about to turn to make his way through the trees when he hears a loud booming in the distance. Thunder? He looks up at the bright blue sky. As he’s squinting up the sound comes again and a squiggle of unease knots in his stomach.

 

 

He walks towards the distant mountain range, his heart beating like a humming bird inside his chest. He knows it’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid but he thinks he knows what it is. His mind is racing: but this isn’t a desert. Drenica? Somewhere in Russia?

 

 

Bucky walks for five minutes before he hears the familiar ratatat of artillery. It’s another five minutes before he hears the murmuring of voices; too far to make out the words. He ducks behind a tree and takes a moment to catch his breath and think about what he’s doing.

 

 

I must be fucking crazy, he thinks to himself sternly. I can’t just go barging into whatever this is. As gunfire cracks in the distance he thinks to himself, is this it? Is this when it happens? He’s fucking mentally unprepared, trying to give himself a peptalk when he turns and nearly plows into a soldier. The guy jerks back in surprise and brings up his gun. Bucky moves, muscle memory quick, takes the man’s neck and wrenches it to the side.

 

The man goes down like a sack of bricks in his arms, dark eyes open wide and sightless. Bucky doesn’t let himself think; takes his gun, pulls his boots off and puts them on his own feet. They’re too big; still warm. Then he ducks back through the trees, weaving his way as quietly as he can back towards the field. He pauses by a fallen log and takes a minute to look down at the gun clenched in his hand.

 

 

“Fuck,” he whispers, throat tight. His hand is steady when he holds the gun up and considers it. It’s weird; unlike anything he’s ever seen before. After a moment he drops it by the tree and continues on willing himself to be done with it. Running.

 

 

By the time the sun is starting to sink, Bucky has put the mountain range far behind him. He’s still not sure where he is, although he suspects he might be somewhere in Europe. The countryside is almost eerily silent, seemingly abandoned of all human life. He stumbles upon a farmhouse just as the sun sinks behind the horizon. It’s clearly abandoned so he decides to poke around.

 

 

Inside there isn’t much in the way of dust but the cabinets have been all but cleared out and there’s clothes strewn out of the closet. Whoever left here left in a hurry and recently. He finds a can of beans in the far corner of a pantry and scoops hem out into his mouth with hungry fingers. He nearly weeps when the old fashioned pump at the sink spurts out water. Up up up the creaky stairs and into the first room he goes. It’s a bedroom with clothing tossed around like a tornado swept through the place. Sifting through the clothes he finds a pair of pants that look like he might fit them and takes off his muddy track bottoms to pull them on. They’re in a strangely retro style but then again Bucky supposes that might be in in Europe in the 80s. Or 90s. Or whenever he is.

 

 

He splays out on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. In the distance he can just barely hear a tank firing, the boom resonates.

 

 

“I want to go home,” He curls in on himself. If only.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so short I am embarrassed to post it. But I'm going out of town for five days and I wanted to put something out there so here it is.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

 

 

_Bucky is 27, Steve is 29_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up disoriented, with a dry mouth and gritty eyes. It takes a moment of blinking at the ceiling to realize he still hasn’t jumped back. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes he lingers in a place for a while for no discernible reason. He feels heavy with exhaustion even after a night of sleep; stretched thin like a pane of brittle glass.

 

 

 

“Get a grip,” He swallows the lump in his throat and rubs at his eyes. No sense in lying here crying about it. He gets up and wanders down the hall to check out the other rooms; there’s a little closet that’s been completely cleared out and another, larger bedroom that looks like every piece of furniture has been broken, the piles of clothing flung around make it evident the place has been ransacked. It’s still pretty; high ceilings with big wood beams running across them; a sturdy bed, dipping down on one side, the pictures on the wall faded to dream-like states. Bucky spends a few minutes staring at the face of a young girl whose solemn eyes seem to be looking far beyond him, gazing out in black and white into forever. Eventually he shakes himself and heads towards the broken dresser, half heartedly pulling open the drawers. There’s an old bible in one of them that he picks up and runs his fingers over the worn inscription, _liebling, liebling auf mich warten_ before tucking it back gently under a torn shirt.

 

 

 

He finds an old pair of men’s shoes in the downstairs closet. They’re his size, sole worn nearly through. Would it be so wrong? He thinks. I don’t want to wear these boots anymore, he thinks. “I can’t…I can’t,” he scrubs his hands through his hair. In the end he leaves the dead man’s boots untied in the hallway, tucked away against the wall for someone else to find.

 

 

*

 

 

He searches the kitchen again, rifles through the cabinets, but there’s no other food to be had. At the weird pump sink, he washes his face and the back of his neck before heading outside. Judging by the sun it’s around mid morning. Bucky stands real still, closes his eyes and strains his ears but there’s nothing; no boom from the night before, no sharp crackle of angry gun fire. Whatever that was, it’s passed like a summer storm.

 

 

There’s a little road running by the farmhouse and he decides to take it, keeping his ears and eyes peeled for any sign of trouble. “Road’s gotta hit a town sometime,” He mumbles, not sure who he’s trying to convince. But a town means food. Bucky’s dealt with hunger before in his travelling and it never gets any easier.

 

 

He walks for a long time. The sun rises slowly overhead and he listens to the birds call to each other through the heavy foliage lining the road. Bucky’s mind goes strange places in the heat. His feet ache with every step and he thinks about baking out on the rooftop of that run down apartment in Brooklyn; standing on his ma’s toes in the summer sun as she danced him through the drying laundry; the smell of melting asphalt and sweat, her dulcet voice singing _mes jours comme mes nuits, sont en tous points pareils. Sans joies et plein d’ennuis, personne ne murmure “je t’aime à mon oreille”_ laughter bubbling up in his chest as she spun him through the sheets. The weight of her hair when she’d let him braid it, the look in her eye whenever he flickered back to her side after traveling.

 

 

“Who did you meet?” She’d ask, every time.

 

 

“Tous les garcons et les filles de mon âge,” he starts to hum, heat stupid. “font ensemble des projets d’avenir.” He feels like he’s going insane, slow like molasses, drip drip drip there goes more of him, leaving traces behind like fingerprints on glass. It happens sometimes, he tries to convince himself. The jumping isn’t a science. Is this when? He tries to keep his breathing controlled. Is this when?

 

 

Finally, just as the sun is beginning to turn in the sky, the universe reaches out to save him from his own insipidness and there’s a clearing around a bend in the road. Quaint little buildings stand, leaning against each other in the afternoon light. Heavy ivy spreads like a web across the brick facades, bright potted plants sit withering on porch steps, cheerful doors are painted in friendly greens and blues; it would look like a damn fairy tale setting except for the busted out windows and brick-a-brack strewn across the street. Sure looks like someone swept through here in a hurry Bucky thinks, heavy with fatigue.

 

 

He takes his time going through the house, searching every nook and cranny. He greedily gulps down a jar of canned tomatoes he finds; drinking the tart juice at the bottom and licking his lips to chase the taste. There’s another strange pump – “where the fuck am I?” - apparatus by the sink he works out with a few muttered curses and he drinks so much water he feels nauseous for a few minutes afterward.

 

 

Upstairs in the attic, there’s a little cot tucked away in a corner. Bucky shakes out the blankets piled on top before crawling in, a wave of exhaustion sweeping over him like an undertow out to sea.

 

 

“Day two,” he whispers to the fading light trickling through the room.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

The first thing he notices when he wakes up is the temperature; it’s almost stifling in the small attic, and he kicks off the covers with a moan of discomfort. The second thing he notices after he squints his gritty eyes open is the dude who is chilling in the chair by the window.

 

 

It’s amazing how quickly the adrenaline shoots through his system; he’s bolting to sit upright with his heart in his throat before he even has a chance to inhale. What the fuck? His heart is pitter pattering away.

 

 

“bout time you woke up,” The guy drawls, not bothering to glance up from the magazine he’s perusing. “I imagine you’re hungry?”

 

 

“Yea,” Bucky says after a moment. He shifts uneasily as the guy licks his fingers and turns a page. He looks harmless at first glance, but Bucky sees the way he holds himself, the callouses on his hands.

 

 

After a minute spent with Bucky holding his breath the guy sighs and tosses the magazine aside. “How long you been here?” He pushes his cap up, scratching at his dark hair.

 

 

“Just the night,” Bucky moves to stand, highly aware that he’s probably taken over this dude’s bed without his permission. He’s glad he kept his shoes on.

 

 

The guy raises his eyebrows, “Oh yea?” He gives a funny little grin like he’s making a joke and then he heaves a sigh and stands. “Well come on downstairs when you’re ready and we’ll scrounge you up some chow.” And then he turns his back on Bucky and pushes open the creaky door.

 

 

“What the fuck?” Bucky asks himself after he takes a deep breath. His head is spinning with half formed questions, hazy and indiscernible. He shakes his head eventually and shuffles hesitantly from the room. In the hallway he can hear the humdrum of voices coming from the bottom floor. Is this when? He thinks desperately, before setting his shoulders and heading towards the stairs.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

“Look at his baby face,” a thickly mustached man hollers towards him when he creaks down the steps. “I never seen cheeks so smooth.”

 

“Uh,” What the _fuck_? Bucky thinks he should be offended but he’s wholly confused cause his face is definitely sporting a few days worth of stubble. “Thanks?” Compliment maybe; he’s young looking for his age. Probably best not to piss off the owners of this hovel.

 

 

The big guy guffaws like Bucky's made the best joke ever, “Thanks he says. Well I’ll be damned.”

 

 

“Cut it out,” Dark Haired guy from upstairs says good-naturedly from where he’s rifling through a woven basket. He holds up a couple of speckled eggs in triumph and turns to fuss with the heavy iron stove top.

 

 

Bucky wavers at the door but eventually that dizzy exhaustion that so often accompanies hunger pushes him to sit on one of the chairs. He puts his head in his hands and tries to ignore the feeling of being stared at.

 

 

“When’s Stripes due back?” Stache Man asks.

 

 

“Said he’d be back mid morn, so any time now,” Dark Hair (Bucky is too tired to be creative) says while scooping scrambled eggs onto a chipped plate. Eggs. Bucky’s mouth floods with saliva even as he holds himself very still. Tries not to hope too loudly.

 

 

Dark Hair glances over at him and grimaces, pushing the plate down the counter with a scraping sound. “Go ahead,” He says to Bucky.

 

 

Bucky’d be more hesitant but he’s damn hungry. He shoves the eggs into his mouth, hissing as the temperature burns his mouth and fingers. He’s done all too soon and staring down at his empty plate with remorse and the nausea that comes with eating too quickly. He rubs the tips of his fingers together, where the heat has made them tingle.

 

 

Dark Hair makes enough eggs for Stache Man and himself. The two men put it away almost as quickly as Bucky did and then sit for a few minutes rubbing their bellies in silence. Bucky meanwhile is desperately trying to think of a way out of the situation.

 

 

“So where’re you from?” Stache Man asks, eying Bucky up and down. Lingering in particular on Bucky’s fancy shoes.

 

 

“Uh, Brooklyn.” Bucky says, for lack of a better idea. His accent is dead ringer New Yorker anyway.

 

 

Stache just looks at him like he’s a moron. Probably pinned his accent already. “Stripes is gonna be beside himself,” He drawls to Dark Hair before smirking at Bucky. “He’s a New York boy through and through.”

 

 

“Great,” Bucky feels the anxiety rising into his mouth and he swallows it down. “Hey I’m,” He clears his throat, “I just gotta step outside a minute,” He stands so abruptly the chair falls over and he fumbles through apologies, picking it up.

 

 

He can feel their eyes searing into his back as he pushes through the rickety kitchen door.

 

 

“Aw man,” He hears, “Do you thi-“ The kitchen door slams shut.

 

 

Bucky pukes beside the house, bile rising up in violent wave after violent wave. For some long minutes afterwards he leans against the stone, panting and dizzy; extremities in pins and needles. Ate too fast, he thinks sadly. What a waste. He takes a few steps into the yard, gazing across the treeline. Could he? But something makes him hesitate; some creeping in his hindbrain pick pick pick like a spider meticulously spinning its web; thoughts slowly coalescing into a silk string he’s desperate to follow to its conclusion. His heart is hammering like a jackrabbit against his breast bone.

 

 

“Calm. Down.” He whispers, firmly. But he’s always been a stubborn ass. He tries to shake out his hands, presses them to his numb face. He thinks, wait, wait, this is. He turns, he-

 

He’s standing in his living room. There’s a choking sound that makes him wobble around. Sam and Rogers are staring at him from the couch. Sam’s eyes are wide; Rogers' face is white as a ghost.

 

Fuck, Bucky thinks hazily. The room spins wildly. Fuckity fuck.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooo. OK so this chap is late but slightly longer. IS THE STORY PROGRESSING? Who the fuckity fuck knows at this point. RL is sucking my soul...my job has a surprising amount of 12 hour days. It's awesome...but soul sucking. ANYWAY ~


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

 

_Bucky is 28, Steve is 29_

“I guessed...th-this was how,” he chokes up towards his reflection; distorted, sad. His hair is clinging to his face, mouth flooded with blood. Do you ever make it out? He wonders, hazily, coughing. He can't move. Oh. This is…

 

Ghost stands and raises a metal fist above him. Blinks slow as if to ask, _do you?_

 

 

*

 

 

_nine months earlier:_

_Bucky is 27, Steve is 29_

 

 

“You were gone two weeks,” Sam says, not even looking sorry from his spot by the door. He’s got a purple water bottle in his hand, bright orange shoes on his feet. “I had to tell him.”

 

“Did you?” Bucky asks, pained. He can practically feel the laser stare coming from the living room. Ugh why. Why???? Damn you Sam.

 

“Dude _yes_ ,” Sam says with wide eyes. “He was freaking out. Thought you were rotting in a ditch somewhere. I had to put him out of his misery.” He eases the door open and finally looks guilty. If guilty looks like a man who is about to go for a nice run in the unseasonably temperate weather. “Just…talk to him okay? He was really worried about you.”

 

I don’t see why, Bucky thinks uncharitably. But he hums in agreement as Sam moves to shut the door behind him with a cheerful bang.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Bucky gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts before shuffling like a man headed for the gallows, back towards the living room and Rogers who is sitting like a statue on one side of the couch.

 

Rogers looks at him with dark, unreadable eyes as Bucky heaves a sigh and all but collapses on the recliner.

 

“Are you alright?” Is what Rogers asks when he finally speaks; soft, incongruent and the last question Bucky was expecting in a line of long tedious questions; silly, sad; earnest as ever, with clenched hands pressed down in his lap.

 

“Am I alright?” He blurts out a laugh that catches stupidly in his throat. “Am I?” he shakes his head, looks away from Roger’s face and peculiar expression. “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“I wish…” Roger’s voice is soft and trails off after a moment.

 

What do you wish? Bucky thinks, looking out the living room window. There’s a young girl walking her dog on the sidewalk, texting while the little guy sniffs a bush. The silence in the living room grows deafening.

 

“I wish you would just talk to me,” Rogers blurts out, startling Bucky. He didn’t know the guy’s volume went that loud. When he turns to look, Roger’s eyes are wide like maybe he surprised himself with his outburst. His, “I wish we were friends,” is much quieter, though no less laconic.

 

“Friends?” Bucky asks confused. “Why would you want to be my friend?” More like, you’ve been giving off every signal of near repulsion dude, where the fuck do you get off? Somehow he manages to bite his tongue hard enough to stop those words from leaving his mouth.

 

Rogers is staring at him silently like maybe he knows what Bucky is thinking. He’s silent like he’s run out of words, like the paltry amount he’s spilled has worn him out; his mouth is pinched, those remarkable eyes strangely soft.

 

Speak, Bucky wants to scream. “Rogers, why now?” He asks sharply.

 

“I didn’t know how to at first,” Rogers says nonsensically, frowning at his knees. He shakes his head.

 

“What? Didn’t know how to…” Bucky’s heart is racing so quickly he feels nauseous. He’s so stupid, but he has to ask. He’s so stupid but he – “Did you…meet me before? Is that why?”

  

This time Rogers is the one to look away. “No,” He says while gazing out the window, eyes tracking the girl and her dog as they turn around the street corner.  “Not you.”

 

 

*

 

Bucky agrees to be friends if only so Rogers will stop giving him wounded eyes. Well truly, it’s frustrating how much he wants it. Something about R- “would you please just call me Steve already? " – Something about Steve is heavily compelling. He’s just so fucking earnest, and a somewhat surprisingly sassy smart ass. Bucky finds himself agreeing to hang out in the next week and go grocery shopping of all things. What the hell? He eventually stumbles down the hallway to his bedroom and splays out on his bed, half sure he hallucinated the whole conversation.

 

 

*

 

 

He gives himself the day to vegetate and goes to sleep early with Gilmore girls playing on his computer. The next morning he calls his work and is transferred by the charge nurse to HR and promptly fired. He tries to play the I was sick card but it doesn’t fly.

 

“Fucking fine then,” he spats at the phone after his shaky fingers hit end. For a minute he sits with his head in his hands as if the pressure from his palms could keep the sting of tears away. What a shit week, shit shit.

 

After a minute he lays on his bed, letting the world go hazy around him, soft afternoon light soak into his skin. The big old maple outside his window is blowing in the wind; shadows of its red leaves cast against the walls like strange waves. He could be under water if he let his eyes drift closed. His phone vibrates.

 

 _Heard you got canned,_ itsy-bitsy says with her creepy insight. What has it been, 45 minutes? That's got to be a personal record for her.   _Coffee in 25?_

 

 _kill me,_ he texts back.

 

 _< 3 _she replies.

 

*

 

“Has this ever happened before?” Nat asks, brow wrinkled over a hot latte, half an hour later.

 

“Never this long,” Bucky rubs at his itchy eyes. Even after 18 hours of sleeping his body still feels like it’s been hit by a mac truck. He looks up at Nat and they share a commiserating glance. She’s a blond this time and her hair is cut wickedly short. He shrugs.

 

She lifts her brows as if to say, why now?

 

“I dunno.” Bucky heaves a sigh. “But as a result...Rogers…I mean Steve…knows about my jumping. God.” He tries not to think about it.

 

“That’s assuming he didn’t already know,” Nat holds up her hand when he scoffs, “Alright, alright I'll drop that for now. And since when are you calling him Steve?”

 

He shrugs uncomfortably. “Since yesterday. We’re er…going to be friends?” He slurps his coffee. Shut up Bucky, he thinks.

 

“Oh really?” In the corner of her mouth Nat's got that smirk going.

 

“Yes,” Bucky grits out, discomfited. “I can do it.” As if she’s accused him. That little voice that lives in the back of his head asks, _can you?_ Fuck you, he thinks, I can. Sure R-Steve may quite possibly be the most gorgeous human he’s ever laid eyes on but he’s capable. He doesn’t have to sleep with every person he’s attracted to. He can be friendly.

 

“I’m sure you can,” Nat says like she’s soothing a spooked horse. He doesn’t believe her sincerity for a second but it warms him nonetheless.

 

“Whatever,” he huffs, amused despite himself. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. Since they fucking fired me over at Georgetown.”

 

“Bastards,” Nat spats in Russian. She taps his foot with her own and the pressure centers him. He takes a breath, holds it, lets it out.

 

“S’okay,” He murmurs eventually, tired. “It was just a job.” But it was mine.

 

“Well….” Nat bites her lip. “You could always come to work with me?”

 

“Fuck,” Bucky says after a moment. “I may have to.”

 

 

*

 

 

Nat goes to collect Clint from Gander Mountain and they all meet back up in Del Ray, piling onto Bucky’s couch. Sam joins them a few minutes later with a giant bowl of popcorn and Steve shuffles in on his heels, waving at Nat and Clint and giving Bucky a wide smile.

 

“What’s on the menu?” He asks, sitting next to Bucky on the couch as the movie queues up.

 

“Star Wars,” Bucky whispers, highly aware of Steve’s warm thigh against his own. “You must be educated.”

 

“Shh it’s starting,” Clint cuts Steve off just as he’s opening his mouth. “No one ruin it for him or I will shoot them with my new bow.”

 

“Technically you'd be shooting arrows not bows though right?” Bucky yelps when Clint bullseyes him with a pillow.

 

“I shoot whatever I wa-“

 

“Er, is it starting?” Steve asks when _a long time ago in an galaxy far, far away_ lights up the screen in blue.

 

“Yes!” Clint scrambles for the remote to turn up the volume just as the main theme booms. He falls off the couch. Out of the corner of his eye Bucky can see Nat with her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. On his other side Steve is entranced by the font scrawling across the screen, the light from the television reflecting in his eyes.

 

Yes, Bucky thinks, watching him. I can do this.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am clint when I watch star wars with people. NOBODY TALK, NOBODY LOOK AT ME. it is srs bsns. PS is anyone as excited for rogue one as I am?????!!!!! anyway we are plotting away here ;) next chapter is Steve interlude II!!


	8. Chapter 8

 

Steve Interlude II

 

 

_Steve is 15,_

_Bucky is 30_

 

 

 

It’s sometime in the early hours of a sleepy Thursday when Steve awakens to his mattress dipping down. He squints through his lashes and sees Bucky quietly sitting at the end of his bed.

 

 

“Oh,” Bucky says when he meets Steve’s heavy gaze. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Sorry pal.”

 

 

“S’okay,” Steve slurs, wiping sleep residue out of his eyes. As he sits up his back cracks. “I’m glad you did, Buck. You know I don’t like missing you.”

 

 

Bucky grins, shakes his head. “Oh believe me, I know.” His tone is rueful, like maybe he’s gotten an earful from Steve before.

 

 

Steve clicks on his dim bedside lamp. “Ma’s at work,” he explains, “we can talk normal volumes tonight.”

 

 

“Sounds good,” Bucky sighs, leaning back against the wall. He turns for a moment to glance out the window at the skyline; Steve is tickled by the amount of time Bucky spends looking at everything with big eyes. It’s just New York, he often makes the running joke, ain’t you from here?

 

 

“Got any new Argosy?” Bucky asks after a moment spent in comforting silence.

 

 

“Think so,” Steve yawns. “Well new as of last month.” He climbs out of the bed and goes to his wobbly dresser, pulls a pulp mag from the stack he keeps on top for Bucky.

 

 

“Thanks Stevie,” Bucky smiles when Steve hands it over.

 

 

Steve feels a flush rise in his pallid cheeks. “Sure.” He coughs, getting back into bed. He dozes for a while, watching Bucky flip through the pages generous mouth curved and so dear Steve aches tracing the shape of him. He sits up again, shaken at the tide rising inside himself.

 

 

Buck glances up from the magazine. God his eyes are blue, Steve thinks, mindless. He’s leaning forward before he even realizes it, pressing his lips against Bucky’s and feeling his belly lurch in bitter disappointment as Bucky jerks back.

 

 

“What are you doing Stevie?” He says quietly.

 

 

Steve wants to die. “I-I,” He shakes his head, words sticking in his throat in mortification. He clenches his fists.

 

 

“Shh, it’s alright Steve,” Bucky’s hand falls softly against his back as Steve curls his shoulders.

 

 

“I can’t help it,” Steve says morosely, staring down at his wrinkled bed sheets, at his own skinny hands twisting them. “I love you Buck.” He pinches his traitorous mouth shut before he says anything else.

 

 

“Oh Stevie,” Bucky moves to hug him tight. “I love you too. But you’re so young.”

 

 

For a second Steve’s heart soars in his chest, then he registers all of what Bucky said. He pulls back out of the safe circle of Bucky’s arms and wipes under his nose.

 

 

“I’m not young,” His voice shakes, belying his assertion. He’d been so afraid of telling Bucky and now - “I know how I feel, Bucky.”

 

 

“I don’t doubt it sweetheart.” Bucky’s eyes are very serious, steady. He reaches up and Steve closes his eyes and lets Bucky brush back his hair.  "Just do this old fella a favor and wait until you're 18 to kiss me again."

 

"Hmmf," Steve makes no promises but he does let Bucky tuck him against his side. They stay beside each other like two halves of a matching shell until slowly, slowly Bucky begins to fade away.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

_Steve is 25,_

_Bucky is 31_

 

 

“You just missed him,” Jim speaks almost as soon as Steve steps into the house.

 

 

He pulls off his helmet and runs his hands through his sweaty hair, not bothering to ask who. The air feels tight in his lungs, his voice hoarse and trying for calm but catching as he says, “Oh? How was he?” He wants to scream, god damn it every fucking time.

 

 

“Young,” Dum Dum says, voice uncharacteristically muted. He taps his fork against his empty plate. “Very young.”

 

 

“He had two arms,” Jim’s laser focused on Steve like maybe he expects him to let loose and start throwing shit around the room; he’s looking at Steve like he’s one of those stray dogs they stumble on once and a while; mind warped with starvation and loneliness.

 

 

Might not be far off actually, Steve thinks. He forces a slow nod, “Great, just great. I’m gonna step outside-“ He’s pushing through the door before he finishes his sentence, sprinting around the side of the house as if maybe – but no, he’s long gone.

 

 

With a sudden rage he whips his helmet across the lawn. It slams into a tree and ricochets off back towards him, hitting his shin with an agonizing thump that he relishes even as it has him curling in on himself in pain.

 

 

“Fuck,” He shouts overwhelmed. “Fuck, fuck-“

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

They pack up their gear and move on, keen to complete their circuit and head back to HQ London for a week of leave. The summer air in the south of France is thick and heady, and Steve supposes that under different circumstance it would be beautiful instead of melancholy, a shadow of its true self. Steve thinks they’re all like that now, trudging on day after day slowly forgetting that there was once something else. Steve’s seen horrible things in his lifetime, dealt with death, sorrow, strife but this war, this war is a different sort of animal.

 

 

“What do you think?” Jim whispers. It’s a week or so later and the three of them are huddled behind a rotted out oak.

 

 

“Service truck has been in through the gates the past three days at dawn,” Dum Dum says, face grim and lined with dirt. “Could be that we have ourselves a little intervention.”

 

 

Steve looks out from the cover of the tree line, a pit in his stomach, a nameless anger spreading like fire through his veins. How can people do this to other people, he thinks. He hears Jim shift behind him.

 

 

“Stripes?”

 

 

He glances over his shoulder. “Let’s do it,” He says.

 

 

“It’s risky,” Jim says, but his eyes are hard, his mouth set. Beside him Dum Dum’s watching.

 

 

“Let’s kill these mother fuckers,” Steve says, and a sharp grin spreads across Dum Dum’s face.

 

 

*

 

 

The truck putters slowly through the mire and Steve waits, holding his breath. A slow curve, he curses under his breath as the front tires go clear but then finally, finally the truck hits the pit Jim and Steve and Dum Dum had frenetically dug and covered with a thatch of thin twigs and dry leaves. The rear right tire goes in with a heavy thud and Steve hears a slew of German explicatives from inside. He feels Jim’s finger tap against his shoulder _one two three-_

 

Two men exit the truck, yelling at each other and waving their arms. _Get the shovel you imbecile_ , the passenger shouts. _Fuck you,_ the driver sneers back, pulling up the tarp on the back of the truck. Jim’s fingers count, _four, five, six –_

 

 

It takes the men forty-five minutes to complete the trench for the tire and they’re visibly exhausted by the end of it and half heartedly snipping at each other as they stow away the shovels. It’s nothing to sneak up behind them, to slam his shield into the back of their heads, like a knife through soft butter. They strip the bodies of their uniforms and roll them off the side of the road. War has made some unthinkable things easy, Steve thinks as he and Dum Dum shiver out of their clothes and into the mud coated uniforms. Jim laughs at them and goes to sit in the back.

 

 

*

 

“Du bist neu,” The man at the gate says, bored. He has a thin face, sort of like a weasel. “und spät.”

 

 

“Wir verirrten uns auf diesen verdammten straben,” Steve says, clenching his hands around the steering wheel.

 

 

The guard gives him a look down his nose at him, glances over at Dum Dum, then back at him, “Warum bist du schmutzig?”

 

 

“Wir mussten aus einem loch graben,” Steve barks impatiently, “noch etwas?”

 

 

The guard seems satisfied if a bit unimpressed with their overall intelligence. He waves them through without another word and goes back to his magazine.

 

 

“Nice job Cap,” Dum Dum asides, as they pull through and Steve looks for a place to park by the officer barracks.

 

 

“Thanks,” Steve lets a slow breath out, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. He takes a moment to center himself, glancing out over the bleak ramshackle buildings, the muddy footprints in the yard, the barbed wire and smoke stacks towering overhead like some vengeful monolith. God, I wish Bucky where here, he thinks; says, “Alright guys, let’s get started.”

 

 

*

 

 

Eight hours later Jim pulls over and they stumble out of the truck like drunkards. Steve feels like he’s got grit down to his soul, but he unpacks the kindling the best he can and shakily starts a fire. In his periphery he sees Jim stalking off towards the woods and out of sight between the thin trees. He hears the violent sounds of retching.

 

 

He turns back towards the newly birthed flame, shields it with his hand from the wind. Thinks about summertime in Brooklyn and the smell of Bucky’s skin, thinks about how Bucky’s coming from somewhere to see him. Wide open fields of wheat, the ocean rolling against the docks, Bucky’s mouth pressed against his own like a spark.

 

 

Dum Dum’s quiet as he rolls out their sleeping packs and Steve can feel the weight of his silence like an albatross across his shoulders.

 

 

“You alright?” He asks softly.

 

 

Dum Dum’s quiet for a long time. Eventually he says slowly, “How can anyone be alright after that?”

 

 

Steve looks over his shoulder and catches his eye. “I don’t know,” He admits, “I don’t know if they can be.” He wipes his mouth, looks back towards the fire. “We just gotta stop em…there’s no other choice.” He tries to sigh all the heaviness out of his chest.

 

 

“No,” Dum Dum’s voice comes stronger now; resolute. “There isn’t.”

 

 

Jim shows up right as Steve is pulling a can of beans off of the fire. The three of them sit in companionable silence, each nursing their own miniscule ration. Steve scrapes the bottom of his tin with his camping fork and wishes for more.

 

 

He takes the first watch, walks along the treeline as the sun sinks beneath the sky and the stars wink into being. He watches the movements of the trees in the darkness, hears the way their leaves rustle against each other. He thinks, oh it sounds like they’re singing.

 

 

He spends hours like that, pacing in the dark, as the lightning bugs flare on and off around him. Eventually, when the sky bleeds to pale grey, Jim comes to relieve him with a pinched face.

 

 

“You’ll run yourself into the ground,” He says, shoving him towards the sleeping bags.

 

 

“I’m fine,” Steve slurs out, moving through the field.

 

 

“Yea, yea,” Jim calls out after him. “Bucky would give you a talking to if he knew you’d been keeping yourself up all night,”

 

 

“Bucky’s not here,” Steve says to himself, settling onto his sleeping bag. He lies on his back and sleep crests over him in a heavy wave.

 

 

*

 

 

Steve gets shaken awake too soon, and he spends the morning feeling like he’s got sandbags shoved inside his head. They roll up their packs and Steve stamps out the remains of the fire with a slow foot. Dum Dum shakes his head at him and hands him an extra breakfast biscuit. They press south, leaving the truck abandoned in the field. Let the grass grow tall and vines choke it, Steve thinks, clipping his helmet on. Let the world forget.

 

 

30 kilometers north of their rendezvous, they break for the night. It’s been a quiet day, littered with bird song and summer bugs. Dum Dum had half heartedly started a walking song that had been picked up by the three of them, tragic since they were all nearly tone deaf but amusing nonetheless. Steve feels hollowed out, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as it had the night before; a dull ache rather than a violent pang.

 

 

“Slow seeping wounds are the worst,” his mother told him one time after a 16 hour shift at the hospital, curling up beside him on the couch and watching him shade the curve of Bucky’s elbow. “Because patients think they’re healing but really it’s a decline so slow it kills them while they’re not looking.”

 

 

“How can they fight against something like that?” Steve asked, tongue between his teeth in concentration.

 

 

He remembers the way Sarah’s sigh had caught in her chest for a moment, before she cleared her throat. “Oh sweets,” She had said softly, running her hand through his hair. “That’s just it; eventually they can’t.”

 

 

Dum Dum and Jim refuse to let him take a lookout shift that night so Steve grumpily bundles up in his sleeping bag and passes out. He sleeps heavy and if he dreams, he doesn’t remember them when his eyes squint open in the morning.

 

*

 

Mid summer storms chase their footsteps through sunrise. Steve pulls off his helmet and lets the water soak into his hair, closing his eyes blissful against the wet. They make their way through the forest, threading through copses of silver birch and maple, listening to the sound of the rain against the leaves. They walk a good 12 kilometers before calling it quits for the day, settling down in a natural hollow past a thick grove of trees.

 

 

“I’ll go look for some dry kindling,” Steve offers, as Jim and Dum Dum lay out tarps. He wanders back deeper into the woods, pausing to snap apart any promising logs and test the wick. He’s squatting down, focused on pulling apart a rotted out stump when he hears footsteps.

 

 

He freezes, hand pulling the gun from his side holster and braces himself against a tree for cover. The person is closer now, steps so careful Steve is sure only his enhanced hearing allowed him to pick anything up. He dares to peak around the trunk of the tree and goes abruptly warm, heart stuttering. He reholsters the gun and steps out.

 

 

“Bucky,” He breathes, lightheaded as air seems to whoosh into his lungs for the first time in months. Jesus had it really been 8 months since the last time they met?

 

 

Bucky turns around. “Stevie,” He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Damn are you a sight for sore eyes.”

 

 

“Buck-” Steve gasps out, overwhelmed. He stumbles forward and then Bucky’s there, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Steve closes his eyes and breathes.

 

 

“Stripes you okay, I thought I hea- oh,” They pull apart as Jim comes upon them. “Well I’ll be damned,” he laughs. “you come to put us out of our misery Sarge? We been walking for days,”

 

 

“ ‘Fraid not,” Bucky laughs too. He looks good, Steve thinks, eyes running over his figure. Hair long and pulled back in a bun, face fuller, the circles that frequently bruise under his fair eyes are faint like maybe he’s been sleeping through the night more than once or twice a week. He catches Steve looking and gives him a grin.

 

 

“Hope it hasn’t been too long,” His voice is soft.

 

 

“Not too long,” Steve lies because every day without seeing Buck is too long; but it’s pointless to say and would only hurt Bucky.

 

 

“Saw your younger self bout’ two weeks ago,” Jim says, giving Bucky a slap on the back. “Suppose you don’t remember that eh?”

 

 

Bucky furrows his brow. “Really?” He says slowly. “I…no, I don’t.” He’s got that look on his face that screams to Steve _I am hiding something,_ the set of his shoulders forcibly relaxed, his hands very still. Oh to know the things Bucky kept tucked away inside.

 

 

 

*

 

 

“How are you honey?” Bucky asks some hours later. They’re across the field from the others, the soft murmur of voices just barely audible in the dark. Steve watches the glow of the fireflies flickering through the tall wheat.

 

 

“I miss you,” He says eventually, barely daring to breath it out into the world.

 

 

Bucky moves close to him, the heat of his body soaking into his bones like relief. Steve relaxes into his side as Buck wraps his arms around his shoulders and tucks Steve’s face into his neck.

 

 

“I miss _you_ ,” Buck whispers back, against his hair. "Don't worry Stevie...I'm staying for a while."

 

 

Steve wants to ask how long, but knows Bucky wouldn't be able to tell him for sure. Instead he lets himself drift, feeling small again. Safe, encircled in the golden circle of Bucky’s arms.

 

 

There are times, like in the dim hours of the morning when he had listened to his mother struggling for breath behind a paper thin wall; or the night when he found Bucky spread out on his living room floor like a pinned butterfly, a pulpy mess where his shiny arm had always been, with eyes dark and empty, farsighted to somewhere beyond Steve’s ability to reach. There are times when Steve finds himself praying, reaching out to a god he seldom speaks to but for moments of quiet desperation.

 

And strangely, these coveted moments of warmth with Bucky.

 

 

These moments he lives for really, where he finds himself wishing futures with Buck; a house and maybe a dog and Bucky laughing in the sunlight, unafraid. Holy, he thinks, listening to Bucky breathe, the movement of his chest rising and falling. If ever there was consecration it is the shape of Bucky’s shoulders in his bed, the way his hair flits reddish in the light. He prays,  _please let me be with him always._

 

 

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Bucky’s voice brings him back.

 

 

“Just wondering when we’ll meet,” Steve says because he brings it up most of the times thinking, hoping maybe Buck will slip. He’s desperate for any thread of knowledge Bucky has to give, drinks it up like a man gone mad with thirst in the desert.

 

 

“Mmmhmm,” Bucky rumbles a laugh against him, “Nice try.”

 

 

“Not even a hint?” Steve tilts his chin up. Bucky leans down, brushes their lips together.

 

 

“Nope,” he whispers against Steve’s mouth.

 

 

Steve’s fingers thread up into Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s metal hand moves gently along his side and down to cup his ass. Steve moans softly, presses against Bucky with a sudden fervor, heat pooling in his gut.

 

 

“You getting fresh with me Stevie?” Bucky licks into his mouth, bites his chin, trails open kisses down his neck.

 

 

“I’d sure like to,” Steve manages to say. He lets himself slow tumble down into the tall grass, and pulls Buck with him as he goes. He wants to spread Bucky out underneath him, wants to taste every part of him, crawl inside of him and never come out. Someday, he thinks, stupid with arousal as Bucky moves to touch him, someday Bucky will be here to stay. Someday Steve will find him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve has definitely read Sara Teasdale's there will come soft rains. Also, I could have gone on with Steve interlude forever because Steve (and me) like to wax poetic about Bucky (i love bucky a lot and so does steeebe)

**Author's Note:**

> LOOOOOOSELY based off of the time traveler's wife. so loose. soooooo loose. [my tumblr for those who are interested in being my frieeeend or frenemy or cappuccino](http://kausaustralis.tumblr.com)


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